Sabotage
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: At the end of his University studies, Malcolm plans to take up a career with the Royal Navy. Others, however, have different ideas. Rating for non-graphic adult content. If material of this type offends you, please do not read it.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

A/N: Beta'd by BookQ36, to whom all due thanks for her hard work!

* * *

She glanced through the dossier. Her gaze ran down the notes, lingered briefly on the photograph and went on to the qualifications.

"Impressive," she commented.

Her boss nodded. The suggestion of a smirk played around his mouth. "That's the idea."

She'd had far too much experience to be surprised, but there was still a faint stir of disquiet. "If they find out..."

"They won't. All you have to do is play out the line. He'll bite. And then you know what to do."

Her instructions were detailed and specific. She felt neither distaste nor compunction. It was just another dirty little job, though she looked again at the photograph and noted distantly that this one would have its compensations.

Despite her boss's confidence in her, however – justified by the results of many previous operations, most of which had been far more demanding than this one – she still felt it hard to dismiss her almost formless misgivings. The Section wouldn't be the only people who kept an eye on prospective talent. Her intended victim's own Government had its own equivalent, whose operatives weren't idle in that regard. They would not take kindly to 'poaching' in their territory. Repercussions, if it was discovered, would not be political, would not even be vocal, but repercussions there would certainly be.

Another envelope was tossed on to the desk. It would contain all the things she needed: chief among them her hotel bookings, travel documentation, a passport that certainly hadn't been issued through the regular channels, a quantity of money, and a complete set of ID which did not contain a single word of truth, but which computer records would confirm as being absolutely genuine.

"You'll take no weapons with you," said the man at the other side of the desk, sitting back comfortably. "At least, nothing that could be traced back to us. And I'm sure I can trust you to avoid a diplomatic incident."

"I've never caused one yet." She slid the envelope into the dossier and slipped both into the blank buff envelope.

He did no more than nod. If she messed up, she was on her own. There would be no acknowledgement of her identity from the Section, and no help either.

Neither of them bothered with parting speeches. Moments later she was in the corridor outside, heading towards the outer doors and the summer sunshine.

It would be considerably colder in England. She'd better pack the appropriate clothing. In more ways than one.

* * *

Someone had certainly done their homework.

The University was about to close for the summer holidays, and the area was full of light-hearted students letting their hair down. For those completing their third year, there was a particular sense of release, underpinned of course with anxiety until their final grades were announced.

It wasn't everyone who had their exam papers quietly passed through a scanner and sent for examination in another country even before the year's batch was sent off to independent assessors for marking. But then, the particular candidate whose papers were of such unaccountable interest to a department of a foreign government fitted a highly specific set of requirements.

His career path was marked out in front of him. The Special Boat Service were waiting to gather him in. His family were Royal Navy to the core, and there was no reason whatsoever why he shouldn't follow the tradition; he made no secret of the fact that that was his intention.

Along with his intention to have a girl in every port. Preferably rather more than one, and not only decently one at a time.

He was working along those lines when she finally tracked him down, in a pub not far from the University's Halls of Residence. He was in a crowd of students, and he had a young woman in each arm. From time to time he whispered something to one or the other, something that made them giggle.

She bought herself a glass of white wine and found a seat from which she could keep him under observation.

Considering that it had been taken without his knowledge, the photograph hadn't been bad. It had caught the intelligence, the flicker of sly humor. It hadn't done justice to his air of confidence, and to the sexuality he exuded. He hadn't yet grown into the man's body he would have in a couple of years; there was still the last lingering coltishness in the slight frame. Nevertheless, she was in no doubt that there would, indeed, be compensations in this particular assignment.

In the rowdy, raucous atmosphere of the pub, no one was as cautious as they should have been. She'd already made it her business to establish where the security cameras were. For someone with her skills, it was child's play to slip a couple of drops from a tiny bottle into the right glasses unobserved as she passed them, ostensibly on the way to the toilet; the girls were already tipsy and giggly, and swigged gulps of their drinks without heed.

He watched them, of course. Drunk and passed out would be no fun for him at all.

His gaze slid across hers as he whispered in one ear. If she'd been imaginative she might have thought a devil looked out of his eyes, but then she was quite a few steps ahead of him in that respect. Whatever he was, it was nothing to what he'd be one day, if she was successful.

The blonde giggled. "I've never–"

"All the more reason to try it now, then." She caught his voice this time, low and seductive, its English accent pronounced. "I promise you you'll enjoy it."

The last of the doctored drink flowed down. The muscles in the slender throat moved smoothly. "Aw, why not." More giggles, but as she stepped forward she staggered. "God, how many have I had?"

"Not that many." He held her up, though he didn't let go of the redhead in his other arm. "Come on, we haven't far to go. And then you won't have to stand up for the rest of the night."

"_You_ will, though!" the other girl slurred. "Think y'can manage it?"

"Oh, I'm sure I can." He grinned slyly, like a fox, and ran his tongue suggestively around his lips.

More raucous laughter.

The three of them went out into the night. After a couple of moments, she followed them unobtrusively.

After the heat of the bar, the air outside was cool. The change would accelerate the effect of the drug. She only had to wait for the inevitable.

The soles of her shoes were specially treated. She could walk as soundlessly as snow falling, and her dark clothing blended into the shadows.

Almost at once the problems began.

At first they found it funny, but the drug was too strong. The two girls began to lurch and then to stagger, and his initial amusement segued quickly into irritation. "Christ, you haven't had that much –! Can't either of you two hold your bloody drink?"

Evidently they couldn't. Soon he was all but carrying them. Fortunately he'd been right in saying that his flat wasn't far away, but by the time they'd reached it, it was already clear that he knew his plans were doomed.

Extracting his key from his pocket was going to be a serious problem, given that if he released his grip on either of the girls they'd simply fall to the ground. She listened to him cursing for a moment, and then stepped forward.

"Can I help?" she asked mildly.

He snatched a glance at her over his shoulder. "We appear to have a problem with excessive consumption of alcohol," he said bitingly. "I think these two lovely ladies need to get to bed and sleep it off."

"You need help getting your key."

A nod. "Thank you. It's in my left trouser pocket."

_Perfect. _She reached around the semi-comatose redhead, pulled back the flap of his loose jacket and pushed her hand into the pocket he'd indicated. His pants were tight; she'd already noticed that they displayed his cute little ass to perfection. It made it difficult to get her hand in far enough to get hold of the key, but even so there was no reason for it to remain in there for quite as long as it did.

A fact that did not escape him.

He'd been looking at the door, deliberately avoiding her gaze so as not to embarrass her while she was in such a potentially delicate situation. In some respects, it seemed, he was a gentleman. When her hand remained immobile, however, apart from a gentle probing of the fingers in search of something quite other than the key, the gray eyes switched to her abruptly.

"My, you Transatlantic types don't waste time, do you?" he commented. "Do you know, I don't believe we've been introduced."

"I think that can be arranged." She withdrew the key and inserted it. The lock disengaged with an audible _snick_. He pushed the door with one knee, and it swung open silently.

"Well, let's get these sleeping beauties to bed. Shame. I had been planning to join them, but as it is..." He shrugged. The gesture was difficult to achieve now that he was effectively carrying two semi-conscious girls, but he managed it. "Perhaps when they've woken up tomorrow we can rearrange. Depends on how bad their hangovers are, really." He kicked open a door that opened off the hallway to the left. "They'll have to share the spare bed. It's only a single, but funny, I can't spare mine. Not when they're bloody comatose, anyway."

She pulled back the bedspread and then relieved him of the weight of the blonde. The girl muttered something as she was laid down on the bed, and her ankle-length boots were slipped off.

"Just yours too, sweetheart." He lowered the redhead alongside her, and competently unfastened the sandals she was wearing. "If you wake up in the night and feel like undressing each other, though, do give me a call." He dropped a kiss on her bare navel. The only response was a muttered obscenity that slurred off into a snore.

"I'll take that as a 'Not likely'," he remarked, pulling up the bedspread to cover them both.

It wasn't just 'not likely.' With what they'd ingested, it was a 'not physically possible.' It would be the best part of a full day before either of them recovered from the drugging. Still, he didn't know that. And by the time they were awake again the chemicals would have been eliminated from their bodies, so that nobody ever _would_ know.

"Care for a drink?" The door to the spare room closed behind them, so that they were in the hall again. She realized that he was prepared for her to try to leave, but determined to detain her if possible. It occurred to her that the confidence he'd shown earlier was covering insecurity. Well, that tallied with his profile. It was one of the things that made him such a promising subject.

She smiled. "I'd love one."

"White wine, I think. I have some in the fridge."

Observant, evidently. Another good quality – no, a _vital _quality for a Section operative. And well-prepared, too. As they walked into the tiny, immaculate kitchen she noticed there were three glasses beside the slate wine cooler on the sideboard. He poured crushed ice into the latter from the dispenser on the front of the freezer, and took out the wine from the fridge. It had been there long enough to be at the perfect temperature; moisture condensed on its surface as he took it out.

Only two glasses would be necessary, though.

A visit to the bathroom was necessary, just to make sure everything was in order. He was sitting on the sofa when she entered the lounge. He'd removed his jacket, and was lying back at his ease. A posture that emphasized what else he kept in his pants, other than his keys.

Pleasure and policy dictated the same course of action. With a smile she leaned over him.

Their lips met.

Neither of them remembered the wine or the glasses as they stumbled into the bedroom, tongues dueling frantically. They tore each other's clothes off.

She was ready, and he needed no encouragement. For all her experience, she couldn't control a muffled shriek.

"Call this the _hors d'oeuvre," _he panted in her ear_. _"You won't believe the main course. And I do dessert, too."

_I'd have liked to hang around for the coffee,_ she thought. _Pity._

* * *

"I need to use the bathroom." She rolled off him and got out of the bed, having to concentrate to do so with any grace. "And I guess the wine's warm by now."

"It should still be drinkable." He smiled up at her, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. "I'll fetch it."

"No, don't bother." This was exactly how she needed him: drained and relaxed and unsuspecting. It would be one more of the lessons he'd learn tonight. Certainly not one of the hardest, but possibly one of the most valuable.

She walked back into the lounge and collected the wine. The time it had taken them to consume the first course hadn't allowed it to lose too much of its chill, thanks to the ice surrounding it, though that had melted a little.

She'd left her jacket beside his in the lounge, and the hidden pocket in it contained more than one small vial. The liquid inside the one she selected was completely colorless.

She measured the dose carefully.

He'd want to pour the wine; men always did. She carried the bottle in its cooler into the bedroom, making a little joke of swirling it so he'd hear the half-melted ice sloshing around. There had been a corkscrew lying beside the glasses so she'd fetched that too, and handed him both. He sat up and busied himself opening the wine while she brought in the glasses.

When she returned with them, she perched on the edge of the bed. She was careful to hold the glasses at an elevation that ensured he wouldn't pay them his full attention. Her fingers around the bowl of each glass concealed the fact that one of them contained perhaps half a centimeter of liquid already.

His attention held elsewhere, he poured the wine and took the glass she handed him.

"To 'main courses,'" she said, raising her glass with a smile. "'Bottoms up,' as you Brits say."

"That's a toast I couldn't agree with more." Crystal chinked.

She drained hers, though his renewed attentions made steady drinking difficult. "Now you," she said, laughing and pretending to push him away. "No pay – no play."

"Oh, I'm not playing. I'm absolutely serious." But he drank all the same, masculine pride unwilling to be beaten by a woman's ability to down a drink.

And after that, it was only a matter of time.

* * *

"I'm sorry – I –" The gray eyes were dazed, their pupils dilated. "I feel –"

"You'll be fine," she said soothingly, running her hand down his flank. "It's a little warm in here, that's all. Would you like another drink?"

"No. Bloody hell, no." His hand rested momentarily on his flat, toned stomach. Nausea was occasionally one of the side effects, but it shouldn't be severe. The dose hadn't been large enough to stimulate his system to get rid of it, and his accelerated heart rate was spreading it through his system rapidly now. Those abnormally large pupils told her that.

"You're really sweating." That was another side-effect. There would be more. "Care for me to help you cool down?"

He shifted awkwardly, frowning at the effort it took. "…weak as a bloody kitten," he muttered. "I think so. Yes. Please. I'm sure I'll be OK in a minute."

"No problem." A pat on the shoulder. She rose, and walked soundlessly into the kitchen on her bare feet.

She'd already noticed the presence of a washing-up bowl. She'd been prepared to improvise if there hadn't been one, but this was what she really needed.

Perfect.

She filled it with water and carried it into the bathroom, where she placed it carefully on the floor while she arranged the pillows around it for additional stability.

He looked on. Not that he had any choice in the matter by now.

When the scene was set to her satisfaction, she went back to her jacket. One hypospray for her, another for him. The one for her was basically a powerful stimulant, because after all he'd take some lifting and probably even some controlling, especially when adrenaline began battling for his life. The one for him was a hallucinogen.

"Dessert's on me," she said playfully, pressing it to his neck.

Ordinarily she couldn't have moved his dead weight with half this ease. She'd pay for it tomorrow: on the flight back across the Atlantic she'd be comatose, and wake to an exhaustion that would take days to wear off completely. But for now he felt like a toy in her hands as she dragged him off the bed, carried him into the bathroom, lowered him to the floor and moved him gently into position. His head was resting on one of the pillows, his eyes filled with bewilderment and fear as he stared into the bowl beside him.

"Bottoms up." She took hold of a handful of his hair and pushed his face into the water.

Every muscle in his body contracted, but they had no power; the drug had been pushed into every fibre by the pounding of his blood. Now the chemicals racing into his brain crippled his ability to react, his capacity to distinguish reality from nightmare. His lungs believed, but his mind couldn't process the information. Even his outspread hands were reduced to hardly more than twitching helplessly.

After a moment she pulled him out. Water ran down his face, his neck, his chest, as he gasped desperately for air. He couldn't even coordinate breathing properly, let alone resistance or protest. He didn't attempt to speak or even look at her; by this time, there was no saying what his mind thought was happening.

She pushed him down again. Held him longer, this time, listening indifferently to the sound of him fighting to conserve air he hadn't drawn enough of to start with. Kept him there, until the fight was lost and the last bubbles danced up around his face, and the jerk of utter terror through his whole body said the inhalation to follow would suck in water.

"Up you come." That knowledge of annihilation had kicked his adrenal glands into top gear; he began struggling as soon as he could claw in breath, but he still had no coordination. He was sobbing and gasping, trying to lash out with arms that could hardly obey him at things that weren't even there.

Another year or two and she might have had trouble, but he was young, and not quite grown into full strength yet. Nevertheless it took her a little more effort than she'd expected to force his head back into the water. He screamed hoarsely all the way down, which was a mistake, as it used up all his air supply. She was using her free hand to bear down between his shoulder blades, feeling the way the muscles beneath it were jerking helplessly. The sudden smell of urine betrayed the depth of his terror; she glanced down fastidiously, hoping the pool wouldn't come near her knees.

This time she let him breathe in. His body went into spasm, and she pulled him out, letting him cough the water out of his airway in great choking heaves.

"One more for luck," she said cheerfully.

He was getting just a little control back. His mouth moved, shaping words with difficulty. _" – pity's – …no…"_

She shook her head. On the word _please, _she drowned him.

* * *

Perhaps an hour later, she let herself out of the flat.

Practice had made her good at her job; the resuscitation had been simple enough. He was sleeping deeply, if uneasily, in his bed, the sound of his breathing betraying the trauma to his air passages. Doubtless his dreams would be hideous, though that was of no particular importance. The important business would be taking place far below the surface where dreams moved.

Exhaustive monitoring of his psychological profile had revealed one small chink in the Englishman's armor: ever since childhood, he'd been uncomfortable in water. He'd worked hard to overcome it, but the visceral anxiety remained. Not enough to debar him from the service he intended to join, as it stood; they might well have been able to help him control it better, even to give him therapy to help him conquer it completely.

Well. Before tonight, that might have worked. Now his fear had been given flesh. He knew _exactly_ what it felt like to drown…

She had carefully tidied away every scrap of evidence, cleaning the bathroom thoroughly and washing and drying the bowl before putting it away exactly where she had found it. Every surface she'd touched had been wiped down. A couple of hairs she'd left in the bed had been removed and were now safely in a specimen bag in her jacket pocket. Two of the glasses, both pristine, sat in the kitchen. The third lay beside a half-emptied bottle of wine in his bedroom. Illegal drugs commonly available on the street were in his jacket pocket, with his fingerprints on them; in the state of mental confusion that he'd be in when he woke up, the odds were that he'd believe he'd taken them. Everything else could have followed on from that: the delusions, the physical damage. _Must have puked up somewhere and breathed it in. _He would have no more than fragmentary memories of where he'd been and what he'd done the night before, and even if he panicked over his state when he woke up he wouldn't dare report it. He wouldn't take the risk of what might be found in his system, or who might have access to his medical files. The Royal Navy wouldn't touch him with a ten-meter pole if he 'did' drugs. And even if he ever did discover what had been done to him – what would admitting it benefit him? Any revelation would bring him nothing but danger and shame.

The flitter she had summoned was waiting. It even had a genuine hackney cab license.

"Airport, please," she said politely, as if the driver didn't already know that perfectly well. She knew what the correct fare was, and had a generous tip ready.

As the flitter pulled away smoothly from the darkened flat she lay back in the passenger seat, smiling. Now if only they could get to the airport without being detected, she'd mark the evening up as a complete success.

* * *

**All comments and reviews received with gratitude!**


	2. Chapter 2

"You _failed?_"

Stuart Reed stared incredulously across the lounge.

His son stared back at him. There was not a vestige of colour in his heir's face, though he held himself upright with the rigidity of shame.

"Yes, sir."

The older man drew several deep breaths, struggling to control his rage. In the chair at the other side of the hearth, Mary stirred as though contemplating putting out a hand towards their good-for-nothing offspring, but thought better of it and sat still.

"May we be told exactly _in what way _you failed?"

The carefully arranged tie moved, betraying a swallow. "Cowardice, sir."

_"Cowardice?" _He erupted out of his chair. "They accuse a Reed of _cowardice?_ What the devil did you do?"

"That wasn't exactly how they phrased it, sir." His son's voice was so controlled it sounded expressionless. "I failed in the physical side of the tests. In the swimming, to be precise. I – panicked."

"Panicked?" Madeleine had been silent so far, but now she spoke up; she'd been invited home expressly to join in the celebrations when the newest generation of Reeds took up the family tradition. "But Mal, you've been working on it – you told me you can swim now!"

"I can. It wasn't that." A desperate glance flicked in her direction. "Something happened – I tried everything – I –"

"You _panicked!_" Fury impelled Stuart across the couple of metres that separated him and his son. He yelled so hard that spittle sprayed the white face opposite him. "You lost your ruddy nerve in a few metres of water? You threw away a career because you're a rotten little coward _as well_ as a weakling? So what exactly do you propose to do with your life now? Your mother and I won't keep you!"

"I can still have a career, sir." Ramrod straight, as straight as he should have stood on the bridge of his own ship one day. Hell and blast and damnation take the day the whelp had been born. "I've had an offer –"

"From a gay-boy whorehouse? It's all you're fit for!"

"... from Starfleet." The grey eyes so unlike his own stared back at him with despairing defiance. "They've accepted me for officer training."

"STARFLEET!" His scream made even Madeleine step back. "That parcel of Yank nancy-boys and their bloody 'warp drive'! The sea not good enough for you, eh? Generations of Reeds not enough for you to live up to? Well, get out there and good riddance. The Yanks may accept second-best, but the Royal Navy needs _real_ men, _real _officers. I'm just ashamed it had to be _my _son who wasn't good enough. Now get out of my sight!"

"Yes, sir." The boy actually had the effrontery to glance at his mother. Fortunately Mary had the self-discipline to keep her eyes lowered.

Madeleine, however, would have earned herself a whipping if she'd been five years younger. She caught at her brother's arm as he went to walk blindly out of the room. "Good luck, Mal. Keep in touch, will you?"

No answer, just a curt nod before he pulled away and walked out.

The front door opened and closed.

"Nice one, Dad."

**TBC**

* * *

**All comments and reviews received with gratitude!**


	3. Chapter 3

She met him again as he was walking away from the boss's office. Doubtless the last of such formalities as there were in their end of the business had been concluded. On the next day his specialist training would start, and for some of it she would be his tutor.

He'd finished his growing during the intervening years. It was a man who stopped and stared at her. She watched the memories surface and coalesce.

"Ensign." The single pip gleamed beside the maroon piping on his uniform.

"Major." He recognized her MACO ranking and came to attention automatically, though the blood had drained out of his face.

"Welcome to the Section," she said mildly. "Stand easy."

'Easy' wasn't quite the description for his demeanor. For one thing, it didn't apply to his eyes, which showed all too clearly that the pieces were falling into place. It didn't need the IQ of a genius, just all the facts and the intelligence which his Starfleet reports had consistently noted as extremely high.

Recognition became incredulity. Incredulity became realization. Realization became rage. Rage became intention.

"Permission to speak freely, ma'am." His profile had mentioned the rigid discipline of his upbringing. Starfleet training had reinforced it. The Section could benefit from it, and would, when he'd had the last of the necessary molding applied.

"Granted."

"One day, ma'am, I'll kill you with my bare hands for what you did to me."

She nodded easily. "Perfectly understandable, Ensign. And on the day you're skilled enough to do it, I'll let you. But in the meantime, I'm sure that ambition will be a powerful motivator for you to excel at your training here."

"It won't be _a _motivator, ma'am. It will be _the _motivator. And one day the tables will turn."

She laughed, and flicked his cheek with a careless finger. "I'm sure of it. And by the way, I enjoyed the dinner; I was just sorry I couldn't stay for coffee. Perhaps we can try again some time. If I promise not to bring my jacket, of course."

Her long experience in these things told her he was already half way to ceasing to feel; reports from his time in the Academy said he was as promiscuous as a feral cat, resisting any attempt at closeness with a hiss of naked fear and menace before he fled back into the dark. Now he was older, he might well try to form relationships, but she knew, even if he did not, that his ability to do so was now fatally flawed. Still, in the meantime he and she were joined by circumstance like binary stars, a relationship of mutual physical attraction in which liking had no part whatsoever. They could share a bed and use each other with calculating expertise, and probably would, many times. That fact would count for nothing, when the time came for him to make his bid for revenge. But it wouldn't be just yet, and a flicker of heat woke in her groin at the memory of his skills.

"There's no time like the present, ma'am. Are you doing anything this evening?"

Laughter bubbled up in her. Whatever else he lacked, he certainly didn't lack nerve.

"Why, I don't believe I am. Do you have any suggestions, Ensign?"

"Well, there's a restaurant down town that I've heard good reports of. I believe their wine list is particularly impressive. And if it's not counter to Regulations I might even invite you back for coffee."

"I believe that on this particular occasion we might ignore the regulations," she said, smiling. "You're a section operative now, Ensign. You may have to acquire a certain … facility … for ignoring the regulations from now on."

"But never in a better cause, I'm sure." His English accent had never faded. His slight nod was courtly and enchanting. If she hadn't known better, she wouldn't have had an inkling of the utter hatred behind it.

Yes, that evening in his flat had certainly paid off. Bitter, solitary, intelligent, skillful, unscrupulous – the latter, certainly, not natural to him, but then if he wanted to murder a superior officer with his bare hands it was one he was going to have to acquire and cultivate. All traits that the Section could hone, and train, and use. There hadn't even been any major repercussions to her actions back then; an agent in England had been stabbed a few weeks later in an unexplained incident that was supposed to have been an attempted mugging, but the surgery was successful and he was back in the field a month afterwards – both sides being aware that the incident was a _don't think we didn't notice_ kind of thing, even though MI5 was officially quite above playing games of tit-for-tat. The panic attack that had ended the new recruit's Royal Navy prospects had made him of limited use to the SBS too, so they wouldn't have felt it appropriate to make too much of a fuss; still, honor would have demanded some kind of retribution.

"It's a date, then. I'll meet you at the 602 at eight."

He nodded and saluted – even his salute was still English. With the same drilled precision he about-turned and walked away down the corridor.

She watched him go. He still had a cute ass, though the standard Starfleet coverall didn't show it off quite as well as the pants had done.

Damn, she was looking forward to this.

**TBC**

* * *

**All comments and reviews received with gratitude!**


	4. The Epilogue

**_Some years later..._**

* * *

War had come to Thiaa Prime.

It was one of those things. There had been strenuous efforts made to avert it – even the Vulcans had sent mediators – but in the end, the hostility had exploded, enveloping both continents in a bloody civil war.

The level of technology meant that as conflicts go, it was short. Casualty numbers were astronomical, environmental damage severe. The survivors stared about them at what was left of their once-thriving civilisation, and came to the belated conclusion that 'jaw, jaw' really did have advantages over 'war, war'. A peace was patched up, mostly because there was enough land for everybody now and nobody had the energy left to fight any more. The two sides agreed to occupy separate continents for the foreseeable future.

A pity they hadn't been able to come to so peaceful and logical a conclusion before wiping out three quarters of their world's population, but that was war for you.

_Enterprise _was among the ships tasked with rendering humanitarian aid. The bridge officers gathered in the Situation Room for the briefing.

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed listened, unmoved, and studied the damage reports on the display. Mostly consistent with air-burst nuclear warheads; primitive, but effective. Anyone going down would have to wear EV suits to protect them from the radiation. Only the very few major centres of population had been targeted, but there would be atmospheric contamination planet-wide. Only time would tell if the Thiaans would be able to survive in their post-apocalyptic world, or if genetic mutation and irradiation would make an end of them.

"We need to be prepared for what it's going to be like down there," said Captain Archer grimly. "They'll need to spend a few months getting the towns cleaned up, just so disease doesn't get hold. Not that anyone'll be living there for a while."

_Hardly, with the half-life of this kind of radiation. _He moved the scans in closer. Whole cities, completely flattened as though some giant fist had slammed down on them from the sky. Parts of a few of the stronger structures had survived, but mostly the blast had obliterated everything. People, of course, had been wiped out in a single gasp of unimaginable heat, greater than the core of some stars; it was only in the outer-lying areas where a few had survived, burned and blinded and battered. Not to mention bathed in fallout.

"Vulcan has sent humanitarian aid," said T'Pol calmly. "The _T'Veyr_ arrived two days ago and has brought a considerable quantity of medical equipment, but the casualties are too numerous for the limited number of medical staff readily available. Other ships are on their way, but it will take time for them to arrive."

"Phlox is standing by. I want anyone with any medical expertise to help out. Even a few willing volunteers who've been told what to do will be better than nothing." Archer stared sombrely at the scan of the city he intended to focus their efforts on, and then glanced at his Tactical Officer. "Any input from the tactical side of things?"

"We should take down engineers to check the structural integrity of any building we intend to enter," he replied. "There's evidence of recent seismic activity in the area. The blasts may have left what's left dangerously unstable, and even a slight earth-tremor could finish the job. And our people should be armed. It's possible there may be looters at work."

"This soon?" asked Trip incredulously.

"It's never too soon to try to secure your own survival," he pointed out, wondering if he'd ever been that naïve; he thought not, but then he'd never been as sweet-natured as the chief engineer. "People need food and water. If they don't have it, they'll steal it. They may not recognise us as rescuers before it's too late."

Predictably, the captain sighed. He never liked to believe the worst of people, but in this case at least he was willing to see the logic in it. "Okay. Assign one of your people to each of the away teams and tell them to keep watch. I want the first shuttle away in half an hour."

The officers nodded.

Trip and Phlox went down on the first shuttle, so in view of their value to the ship it made sense for the Head of Tactical to go down too, just to make sure no accident befell them. He left his second manning the station on the Bridge, and took over the co-pilot's seat. Trip took the helm. The medical team and a couple of volunteers were in the back, checking over the medical supplies.

As the small craft broke through the cloud cover, a soft, appalled gasp broke from the man beside him. "Oh, will you look at that!"

He said nothing. He'd seen such things before. Nevertheless, he remembered exactly how it felt – the shock of seeing the difference between a scan from orbit and the actual visual reality of the destruction of a city for the very first time. His left foot began tapping ever so softly. The team had used to joke about it – _Hey, Jag's tail's twitching! _He stilled it, with an effort.

They had plenty of landing spaces to choose from, though it took a bit of care to set down in a space where there wasn't any rubble. The shuttle's sensors flashed warnings of the radiation levels outside, and everyone took the usual care in making sure their EV suits were properly fastened. Six people suiting up in a pod was somewhat cramped, Malcolm noted wryly, as despite their efforts there was still a certain amount of accidental bumping, making everyone absurdly apologetic. When they were all done and ready to go he issued probably unnecessary warnings about making sure that they kept well clear of anything that could rip holes in the fabric; the landscape outside would be a wilderness of shattered brickwork and twisted metal, and exposure to radiation at this density could very quickly be fatal if not treated promptly.

The shuttle door hissed open. The outside world was grey: grey with dust and despair. Not so much as a finger of sunlight made it through the contaminated clouds above. The prospect of nuclear winter loomed.

Phlox was already studying his scanner, searching for the life signs the ship had picked up. They were weak, but the Denobulan wouldn't ignore them for that.

"That way." He pointed.

The escalating tensions had prompted a few visionaries to build shelters, or at least do something towards reinforcing existing buildings with that in mind. The odd shape in the ground the doctor indicated suggested something like the battered shell of a giant tortoise. It had achieved some of its purpose, in that the softly rounded shape of it had succeeded in deflecting part of the violence of the pressure wave, but the reinforced doors had given way. They'd been sunk back to start with, but unfortunately they'd been directly facing the blast.

Everyone was carrying medical equipment. There were a number of survivors in here, and there was no saying what treatment they would need, apart from that for the inevitable radiation burns.

It was difficult for Malcolm to concentrate on holding the phase pistol steady when the heavy medikit on its strap was slipping down the smooth fabric of the EV suit's shoulder. Irritably he picked up the handle to carry it by instead. He fully understood Phlox's concerns, but he had his own concerns. Among which was the possibility that anyone inside this place could mistake _them _for looters, and shoot first and ask questions later.

Trip activated his scanner as soon as they reached the shelter. "Seems sound enough. And I'm not gettin' any readin's on seismic activity."

"Yet."

"I'm on it, Lieutenant." The attempt at humour was unsuccessful, and didn't conceal Tucker's unease.

"If you have no further objections..." Anxiety to get started was making Phlox waspish.

His own scanner showed no weapons in ready mode. That was really all he could do from out here. Whether they liked it or not, the safety of the landing party was his priority. Only now that he'd taken what were to him the obvious and sensible precautions would he give the go-ahead to proceed. That was the good part about not having Captain Archer along; everyone else was prepared to let him do his job.

Most of the bio-signs inside were concentrated in one room. That was good, as Phlox would be able to do an immediate triage on who was still alive and who needed treatment most urgently if they were to stand any chance whatsoever of surviving. Still, it was important to make sure there really was no hostile welcome waiting for them – the electromagnetic pulse of the warhead might have fried the circuits on any standard weapons that were exposed to it, but that wouldn't prevent someone with a little ingenuity from preparing a reception with things that wouldn't show up on a scanner.

He was aware of the doctor breathing impatiently at his shoulder as he led the way inside. He didn't let it affect his concentration in the slightest. _If I was in here, I'd set up an ambush just ... here..._

His caution was needless, however. None of the forty or so people who were in the room were in any condition to mount any resistance. Although the EV suits naturally circulated their own air, he could imagine the smell: burned flesh, blood, vomit, excrement, all overlaid with the smell of the ubiquitous grey dust that coated everything and stirred up in little clouds at every footfall.

The Thiaans were humanoid. Phlox had already downloaded and studied their physiological data. The Denobulan hurried to the nearest, who stirred sluggishly and moaned; Trip was already opening the hypospray case, waiting to be told which to hand over.

It wouldn't pay to assume that just because this room was safe, the whole place was. Once he was sure of that, he could drop his guard ever so slightly – at least far enough to help out with the First Aid. After all, it wasn't as though he didn't know how to treat wounds, though he'd better not let on exactly how much he knew. On all counts it was best to avoid inconvenient curiosity about his past.

Leaving Trip, Phlox, Crewman Cutler and the two volunteers from Hydroponics to continue the work in the main room, he stole almost soundlessly back into the corridor. There were two other, smaller rooms that needed to be checked as safe before any rescue was attempted.

The first had only corpses inside. Some people in this area might have survived the initial blast, but the days that had elapsed would have weeded out all but the very strongest of the survivors. He quickly placed incendiary charges ready for use when DNA samples had been taken. Leaving the bodies would only breed disease; in a catastrophe of this magnitude there was no conceivable chance of the authorities having either the will or the resources to organise formal burials. The samples would be handed over to assist in indentifying the fate of individuals later, if and when attempts should be made to do so.

The second had two life-signs. One was weak, and fading; the other was slightly stronger. He glanced for a second time at the readings, frowning a little.

One of them was Human.

There had been Humans on Thiaa, of course. It had been a thriving trade centre, and Starfleet had had its representatives there, though towards the end they'd issued a warning that the situation was becoming critical and all personnel were therefore being evacuated. Provision would have been made for any Earth citizen to be given transportation out of there in plenty of time. Therefore, strictly speaking, the only casualties should have been the luckless Thiaans themselves.

Somebody hadn't heard the warning – or had chosen not to heed it.

He pushed open the buckled door with extreme care, alert for any movement behind it.

There were seven bodies at the far side of the small room. The two life-signs were among them.

Phase pistol still at the ready, although he already suspected that he wouldn't need to use it, he advanced the few steps necessary.

Nobody here was going to offer resistance. Even as he came to a halt, the weaker life-sign flickered and died.

The external microphone picked up a moan. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose, though as yet he didn't understand why.

Settling the pistol back in its holster, he put the medicines case on the floor, well out of the way. Then he began moving the uppermost body, shutting his mind to the way the charred flesh split as he handled it. Luckily the Thiaans weren't generally heavily built, so even burdened by the additional weight of his EV suit he was able to shift it aside with relative ease.

Three more bodies had to be moved before he found the human.

He almost didn't recognize her. Though the people who'd been between her and the door had saved her from much of the heat blast that would have followed the pressure wave – that was why they were all heaped up against the far wall, where it would have hurled them – she'd still taken terrible damage. Her beautiful chestnut hair was all burned away, and the skin of her face was blistered to the bone.

It didn't need a glance at his radiation meter to know that she was finished. Even Phlox couldn't treat this degree of exposure; the best they could offer here was pain relief. And even he could do that.

_One day, ma'am, I'll kill you with my bare hands for what you did to me._

His gloved fingers on the case were competent and steady. The microphone picked up her hitching breaths.

Hyposprays, pre-loaded with powerful analgesics.

He took hold of her wrist and moved her arm gently, to find an area of skin that wasn't scorched. The armpit was usually sheltered.

Her other arm was wedged under a smaller, Thiaan body. A child. She'd been trying to protect it.

He'd never know whether she was fully conscious. Her eyes would have been burned, and her mouth too, way past any attempt to speak.

He looked down at her for a long moment, the hypospray in his hand. Jag gave a long moan of rage and desire and hatred and longing, unassuaged by the years; Jag, who never forgot and never forgave, who killed without feeling and copulated without caring, and had been unfit to be any man's friend or any woman's lover.

The vow he'd made to kill her had been made in deadly earnest, but the opportunity had never presented itself. By the time he knew himself fully able to do it she was gone, deployed on some other business for the Section. He'd never seen her again, but the intention had remained deep in his soul, as cold and implacable as he was himself. Now, after all these years, he could finally take his revenge. There was no-one here to see him. It would only take the smallest pressure from one gloved hand to snuff out what remained of her life, and redeem his promise.

That promise had been made before _Enterprise_, however. Before the days when acceptance had first surprised and then slowly charmed and disarmed him; before the warmth of the crew among whom he found himself had begun to thaw out the terrible icy block of damaged humanity that had been taken on as the ship's Tactical Officer. Before he'd begun the transformation into the person he was now – Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

It was Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, not Jag, who pressed the hypospray to the patch of unburned skin. Who listened to the hitching breath smooth out as she sank far below the awareness of pain or of the dead child she'd failed to save.

He straightened up. He was done here.

Slowly he walked back into the corridor. There were no life signs in any of the other rooms.

He went back to the main room, where Phlox was busy. Quietly he informed the doctor of the situation he'd found, and the steps he'd taken.

"I doubt in the circumstances whether there was anything more you could have done." The Denobulan was occupied with applying the last dose of medication to those found to be still breathing, who'd been salvaged from the pile of bodies. "I'll take a look at her, but if she's in the same condition as these poor people I doubt she'll survive long enough for us to transport her to the casualty units."

Why had she been here? Why had she disregarded the warning? Why hadn't she taken one of the Starfleet shuttles? He would never know.

As soon as Phlox had finished, the two of them went into the smaller room.

The microphone picked up only silence. The scanner returned no sign.

"Well, at least you tried, Lieutenant," said the doctor heavily. "For what it's worth, she died without pain."

He'd expected to feel anger, frustration, rage at himself for the chance he'd let slip through his hands. He'd neither saved her nor avenged himself. Instead, he felt only a curious lightness of spirit, as though a load that had been weighing him down had finally slid from him and vanished.

He hadn't saved her. In the circumstances, that wasn't possible.

But he'd saved himself, and that was something.

**The End**

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**All comments and reviews received with gratitude!**


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